Absence
by xohearted12
Summary: It's March 18th. You know the date. Each one of you knows the date. In the office, it's kind of an unspoken rule not to ask questions on March 18th.


Hello, again! I just want to thank everyone for the reviews on my other stories. They really get me writing, and that's always good. I honestly don't know where this idea came from, but I found the inspiration and decided to run with.

Sorry if there are any mistakes, which there probably is, but I'm not perfect. I'm only human.

Enjoy!

...

**pairing:** steve mcgarrett/kono kalakaua

**show:** hawaii five-0

**genre:** hurt/comfort

**disclaimer:** nope, not mine. I wish they were, though.

You don't know what it is, but something's different. There's a tension lingering in the air, tempting you to figure it out, but you can't. All you know is that _something_ has definitely shifted. You can feel the change in your bones; one of those weird feelings people talk about, but you can't put your finger on what it is exactly. Your eyes scan the room, your office, looking for some kind of obvious change, but it's not there. The office across from your own is Chin's, but he hasn't arrived yet. Once you notice this, that's when you realize that Steve and yourself are the only people in the office. To be fair, that is half of the team, but it rarely happens.

Then it occurs to you. That shift, that change you feel, it's because of Steve.

He entered headquarters that morning, heading directly towards his office, before closing the door behind himself. You were the only person there when he arrived, already starting on some paperwork you had failed to do the day before. It was a small action, but he acknowledged your presence with a slight nod. You smiled in return, not thinking anything of it. You've spent almost a year in this man's presence, so his behavior didn't seem all that unusual to you.

But it only takes you a half hour to notice that something is wrong.

Doing the best you can to not look suspicious, you pass his office once or twice. Each time you do, he's sitting in his chair, leaning back as far as it will allow him with his left elbow resting on the desk. His face is serious, like it always is, so you don't really pay much attention to that, but he appears to be in deep thought. At some point, Danny arrives, but you're too busy examining your boss to acknowledge him. He eyes you suspicious, watching as you watch Steve.

Eventually, you give up the idea of spying and settle your body against the wall directly across from his office. He knows that you're there. You can tell. Every couple of seconds, you notice his eyes shift in your direction, just enough to see you, but not enough to look directly at you.

After a few minutes, Danny fills the space besides you, instantly crossing his arms over his chest. You notice that his tie is not fully tightened around his neck, probably because it's still early. There's a moment of silence while he tries to figure out what you are doing exactly. You open your mouth to speak, but he beats you to it.

"It's March 18th." He says and you understand. It's all the explanation you need. Those three, simple words speak volumes. That shift, that change you feel. You were right. It's because of Steve. Nothing else needs to be said. It finally makes sense.

...

It's March 18th. You know the date. Each one of you knows the date. In the office, it's kind of an unspoken rule not to ask questions on March 18th.

On this exact day, sixteen years before, if you remember correctly, he lost his mother. March 18th is the anniversary of her death. You feel guilty for not remembering sooner. You feel guilty because you needed Danny to remind you. Steve is supposed to be your friend (you believe that you have reached the point in the relationship where you are allowed to call him that) and you forgot.

He lost his mother and it obviously still affects him. Every day. Especially today. He's only human.

...

Twenty minutes later and you have finally worked up the nerve to actually open the door and enter his office, instead of watching from afar. Danny had advised you against it, but you have to do something. This is the first time the day had come around since you've known Steve. It's the first time you have seen him like this and you're not sure what to expect. You don't know how he deals with it. The pain and the anger. But you have to try.

The door closes behind you, but he doesn't seem to notice your presence. It's been twenty minutes and he is still watching the wall, looking at nothing, but thinking about everything.

Your steps are slow and soft as you slowly work your way towards his desk. You get close enough to talk, but keep the distance as well. He probably doesn't want to talk to you and you're okay with that. If he pushes you away, that'll be okay. You can't just allow him to sit in his office for hours on end, thinking about the mother he lost. But, then again, you can't begin to imagine what he's feeling. Both of your parents are very much alive. You don't know his pain and don't wish to know it for many more years. Dreams of receiving that call, informing you that your mother or father has passed, are the ones that most commonly invade your sleep. You don't know his pain and are absolutely dreading the day that those dreams (nightmares) become your reality.

You can only imagine that losing a parent is the worst kind of pain. The worst kind of punishment. It's something that no one should ever have to suffer through. But he has. Twice. You can't relate to him or his pain. It's completely foreign to you. You feel the need to say something, but can't seem to find the right words. If you could somehow convince him that it gets better, you would, but you can't because you don't know. You have no idea if it gets better.

But you know that have to start somewhere. So, you ask. "You want to go get some coffee?" The words leave your mouth and, upon hearing them, you despise the tone you used. It's too sympathetic. He has to know that you know now. The nerves forming and growing in your stomach cause you to shift from one foot to the other. You have no idea what to do with yourself. When he doesn't answer, you add, "Steve?" His name leaves your lips in a whisper, low and weak. It almost leaves you wondering if you should be the one to help him. Danny would be better at this, you manage to convince yourself, but keep the thought hidden away. He doesn't need to know that you are entirely clueless when it comes to what you are able to do to help him.

For a while, he doesn't respond in any way. He doesn't look at you. You expected him to shout or break something. Really, you're not sure what you expected when you decided to walk through that door, but it wasn't this. You expected some kind of reaction. Anything.

His expression is blank, empty, and he's going to keep it that way. You know that he's hurting. He won't admit to the fact because he wants everyone to believe that he's made of armor, but you know better.

"Alcohol sounds better." _Not at eight in the morning._ His voice rough and deep as he speaks. You can almost hear his heart breaking as it's cracking. He still hasn't looked at you since you entered the room, but, for a moment, your eyes search his face. You're dying to know just what he's thinking, but you know that he has been trained on how to maintain the perfect poker face. His expression is blank, empty, and he is going to keep it that way. He is not going to give away anything that could put him at a disadvantage, but he's hurting. While he does everything in his power to make everyone believe that he is made of armor, that nothing can touch or bother him, you know better.

It takes a while, but your thoughts to return to his alcohol comment. You're not surprised that he said it. Not at all. It makes perfect sense. Everyone does it. It's common for people to want to drink away their problems. It never works, but they still do it. He wants to drink as many beers as possible. He wants to drown himself in alcohol until it doesn't hurt anymore. He wants to feel numb because it's easier to feel nothing than it is to feel everything. You many not know what it's like to lose a parent, but you know that. Even you've tried it before.

But, you pretend not to hear him. "You want to go get some coffee?" You ask again, more forceful this time.

Another second or two pass before he nods. It's almost a nonexistent motion, minor and practically unnoticeable, but, at this point, you'll take anything.

...

You both make your way out of headquarters, walking into the parking lot, trying to remember where you parked your car that morning. It doesn't matter, though, because Steve has already started to walk towards his own vehicle. You turn quickly to catch up with him once you realize that he actually thinks you are going to allow him to drive. He's crazy if he thinks so. There is absolutely no way.

"Steve, let me drive." You practically order. You want to help him. The whole purpose of getting him out of the office was to allow him just a few minutes of fresh air. A few minutes to actually think without having to worry about work. You're perfectly aware of the fact that you should both be sitting in the office, investigating the newest case, but you're not. The team needs its leader, and right now, Steve is not himself, and you can't blame him for it. Asking him to sit at his desk and try to do his job would not solve anyone's problems. Hey, in your line of work, it could get one of you killed. Probably him. And you definitely do not want to see that.

You have to be the one to drive. He's not thinking clearly, his thoughts flooded with memories and emotions that are foreign to him. Sure, he feels emotions, but showing them is not his greatest quality. He's torturing himself by keeping them locked in, racing around in his brain. He can't drive and you won't let him. At first, he looks slightly surprised by your demand, but you are not giving up. You know that it's not something he does often, give up his position as driver that is, but it's different today.

He looks broken and you want to hug him. You want to do anything, everything, you can to make him feel better. You want to hug him, but wonder if he'll pull away. You haven't known each other long, but you hope that you're allowed to hug him.

He looks down at the keys resting in his palm before glancing over at you. You're not sure if you actually gasp, but you come pretty damn close. He looks so broken and you just want to hold him. In that moment, all you want to do is hold him; you want to reach your slender arms out, wrap them around his neck, and simply hold him; you want to do it for as long as he allows you to. If you were to do what you want to do, you know that it would not last long. Steve McGarrett is not the kind of person to ever ask for anything, never has been, never will be, and you know that if you were to hug him, that he would pull away instantly.

But then, he's looking over at you once again, and he manages to make you forget what exactly you were thinking about. The pain in his eyes, the tension in his jaw, it's softer than it was just a moment before. He did it on purpose. He saw the shock on your face upon realizing just how lost he truly is, and he doesn't want you to feel sorry for him. He never asked for your sympathy. He doesn't want it, he never has. You wonder why he agreed to coffee in the first place, but don't spend much time thinking about it.

Before you have the chance to react, his arm is raised, slicing the thick tense air that hangs above you, and he is throwing the keys in your direction. You don't flinch, neither does he actually, when you catch them in your hand.

"Nice catch." His attempt to smirk doesn't go unnoticed. He tries and a second later, you watch as the smile pulls at his lips. It's there, but it's really only half there. It's not the same.

"Nice throw." You respond, opening the driver door, stepping in, while waiting for him to do the same. It takes a moment, but it happens.

...

The ride is filled with silence, stretching on as the minutes pass, but it's not awkward. It's not uncomfortable in any way. You're allowing him the time he needs to think about whatever, or whoever, it is he's thinking about.

Your eyes are focused on the road, the same way they have been for the last few minutes. The radio is off but you don't move to turn it on. Steve is silent in the passenger seat, staring at the road as well. His elbow is rested on the door; his fingers weaved in his hair as his palm rests near his temple.

The mountains are disappearing in your rearview mirror and the scenery is passing outside of your window, but neither of you speak. It's not until you're stopped at a red light, waiting for the signal to go, when he finally does say something.

"It's been eighteen years. I was sixteen." You already know this. It's crazy to you that so much time has passed, but he still feels this magnitude of pain. It just doesn't seem fair. It's not fair that he has had to endure so much from such a young age. You're ears listen closely to his labored breathing, mostly because there is nothing else to hear, and the sound almost destroys the calm exterior you have forced yourself to maintain. Those breaths, so full of pain and devastation continue when he speaks up again. "It's been eighteen years and it still hurts." He admits followed by a sigh.

You don't respond immediately, wondering if he's he saying this because he wants you to hear it or it's what he knows you want to hear. One involves him actually trusting you and finally accepting help for once in his life. While the other is just his way of appeasing you.

"I know." It's all you can say, and after you do, the car is silent again.

...

The cashier offers you a kind smile, passing you the two cups of coffee you ordered, before you grab a napkin and walk away. The distance between the counter and table he is sitting at is only, at most, ten feet. You close the distance with each step before taking the seat across from him. The coffee is placed in front him, but his expression doesn't change. It's blank and it scares you. You want to say something to break the silence. You have questions that you are dying to ask, but don't. He obviously doesn't want to talk and that's okay with you.

The most obvious question that comes to mind is whether or not he's made the effort contact his sister yet. You've met Mary Ann on a couple of occasions, but nothing that serious. You don't know her too well. The question's sitting in her throat, tempting you, but you fight it. Mary is younger than Steve is, that's an obvious fact, but you question whether she actually remembers it. Steve was only sixteen, right in the middle of his teenage years, when their mother died, and it has scarred him for the remainder of his life. What about her? How does she handle it?

Realizing that you have to do something with the time you're not spending talking, you begin to examine the room. The coffee shop is busy. Busier than you expected it to be. There's a young mom, no older than you, sitting in the far corner, holding a screaming baby in her arms. She's doing her best to soothe him, but nothing seems to be working. You spot an older man standing in the line. He looks sad, you have no idea why, but he is definitely sad. You turn your head just an inch towards a table nearby, occupied by a couple of teenagers. They are shouting, even though they probably don't realize that they are, while texting on their phones. You wonder if they know how loud they're being. Probably not, you conclude. You were a teenager once after all. Finally, your eyes return to the man sitting in front of you, his expression the same; no different from the last time you had looked at him. He looks completely unfazed by the screaming baby in the corner or the rowdy teenagers next to your own table and that worries you.

As the silence drags on, seeming endless, you allow yourself to wonder what she was like. His mother. Obviously, you never had the chance to meet and never will, but you wish you had. Your own mother comes to mind, sweet, caring, selfish, generous, all of the qualities a good mother should possess. At least that's what you assume because your mother is the best mother. She is your example for everything. She raised you to be everything you are. She's proud of the woman you are and the woman you will hopefully become.

You can't imagine not having her around. You don't want to imagine who you would have become if had lost her at such a tender age.

Would he have been a different person if he had not lost his mother? Would he have turned into the man you know now?

Once you really think about it, there is so much you don't know about this man. His entire existence is a mystery to you, and he wants it that way. He doesn't let anyone in because he has watch too many people leave. His mother. His father. The list is probably endless. But that's probably the reason why you find him so intriguing. Steve is your boss, your friend on some occasions, and your mentor in others. You admire him because he's older than you are. It's the fact that he has experience more. While, he is only ten years older, it feels like so much more than that. His life is a huge puzzle of events, tragic and devastating events that have molded him into who he is. You don't know much. You really don't know anything at all, but you know enough. Enough to trust him. Enough to comfort him on the anniversary of his mother's death.

...

You feel yourself growing impatient, checking the watch on you wrist every few seconds, shifting in your seat constantly, but you still don't say anything. The scar above his eyebrow catches your eye. You're don't think you've ever noticed before, but find yourself curious of how he got it. You make the assumption that he got it from work. A suspect tried to fight him and managed to wound him. You know that he has a dozen others covering his body. You know this because you have them, too.

A scar on your abdomen from the second gunshot wound you sustained reminds you of the first time you came closest to death.

The bruise currently visibly on your ribs is a battle scar from a kick you took only a week ago.

It's all a part of the job. It's what you signed up for. But that doesn't make it fun.

….

The coffee you ordered him is now cold, sitting in the same position it had been placed in. It remained untouched by him.

You turn your head to look out the large window beside you. The clouds are darker now than they were when you first left headquarters with Steve. They're not as white and puff as before. Living on the island for your entire life gives you the knowledge that a storm is coming. You know this island like the back of your hand and you know that it's going to rain soon.

"My mother." The sound of his voice surprises you, mostly because you had not heard it for a while. It shakes you from your thoughts. You instantly look towards him again, urging him to continue. "She...she was a good wife." There's a pause. He swallows. "A good mother." You hear him pull in a shaky breath before watching as he exhales in the next second. He's not looking at you, mostly staring down at his hands resting in his lap or looking outside the same window you had been, but you don't turn away. You know that there is absolutely nothing you can do to erase his pain. It will never disappear. It will always be a part of him. A part of the reason why he is the man who you have come to know. His mother's death, that very event, has defined his life forever. While it's not the only one, it was the first and, you assume, the most important.

"She sounds like a good person." His eyes are blank, still not daring to look at you, taking a moment to process your words. The silent moment is followed by a slow nod on his end. Your fingers wrap around the coffee cup sitting in front of you, bringing to your lips.

"She would have liked you." You almost choke on the liquid in your mouth, but try not to make it obvious. You've finally gotten him to talk, don't ruin it. "Yeah, I think so." He's whispering now, more talking to himself than he is you. "I think she would've liked you." His voice fades on his last words before clearing his throat.

Once you are sure that he's finished speaking, you lean forward, your elbows landing on the wooden top of the table as your fingers interlock together. "I didn't know her, but I think she would have been proud of you. Proud of the man you are." As the words leave, the only hope you have is that they are convincing. Every word that you are saying is the truth. Every single word. But you're not sure that he's going to believe them.

Of course, your theory is right.

He shakes his head, clearly refusing to believe your statement, but that doesn't stop you from continuing. Not at all. "She would have been so proud, Steve." It's more of a whisper now because you can't seem to help the formation of the lump in your throat. It's growing with each word, with each look in his direction. You lower your head to make eye contact with him. For a second, you're able to accomplish the task before he turns his head away. "She would have been proud, Steve." You repeat it once again, this time with more force and volume, but his eyes have already returned to the window.

As do yours.

It's raining.

...

Once the raindrops stop falling, you decide to stand up from your seat, Steve following suit. And somewhere between watching out of the coffee shop and making your way back to the car, he sits down. Without telling you that he's doing so, he just sits. Right on the curb. Since you are walking ahead of him, you don't notice at first. But once your ears recognized that he is no longer behind you, you instantly turn on your heels.

His knees are bent with his forearms resting on the top of his thighs. The sight makes you want to cry. The tears well up in your eyes, but you can't let them fall. This isn't about you. You cannot cry. Somehow you manage to stop the sobs you feel from escaping before walking towards him. You reach for him, your head moving down to squeeze his shoulder; a gesture that you hope is comforting. The muscles in his back tense under your grasp. He wants to pull away, you can feel it, but he doesn't. He remains still in his position under your hand.

"Thanks for the coffee, Kono" He utters while throwing a rock he had picked up off the pavement.

You still want to cry, but you finally take a spot next to him. "It's the least I could do." He doesn't have to thank you. You wanted to help.

He looks at you. "Thanks." He repeats.

"It's just coffee, Steve." The statement is more directly at yourself than an explanation to him, ashamed by your lack of ability to really help him. You could have done more. Should have done more. All you did was buy him coffee. Anyone could of bought him coffee.

"I know, just…thank you." You catch the pain in his eyes, in his voice, and you know that he's not just talking about the coffee anymore. He's thanking for something, everything, you can't be sure, but you still smile at him and hope that you helped somehow. You didn't do much, mostly because you didn't know what to do, but he seems grateful and you're glad; glad that, for once, you finally got the chance to do something for him: glad that he let you: glad that, just this once, you were the one that got to do the saving. He is constantly saving you from situations where your life is at risk, barging in at the last possible second to rescue you, and you always appreciate that. Of course, you do. But, you've got to admit that this is a nice change. It's a good step.

"You're welcome. Anytime."

He nods before dropping the rock he had rolling around in his hand. "You ready to go?"

You think about the question before shaking your head. "We don't have to. We can sit here for a little while." You pause, then, growing unsure of what you're saying, but continue anyway, your eyes staring down at the ground under your feet. "If you want to." You shrug while resting your chin to your shoulder and pursing your lips, your attempt to be cute.

"Okay." He agrees, smiling back. It's not really a smile, but it's the closest thing you've seen to one all day.

**The End.**

Okay, since we really don't get much insight on their ages in the show, I took creative control on this one. In this story, Kono is twenty-four while Steve is thirty-four.

Thanks so much for reading. Please leave a review and tell me what you think! I hope you enjoyed it!


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